


In the Ruins of Thangorodrim

by Serenade



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, M/M, Post-War of Wrath, Reconciliation, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 07:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13654770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/pseuds/Serenade
Summary: Eönwë and Sauron, in the smoking ruins.





	In the Ruins of Thangorodrim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/gifts).



In the ruins of Thangorodrim, the mountains smoked, and all about the land was laid waste. The towers were broken by the death of dragons, last of their kind, save for the slinking wyrms that crawled away to lightless caves. The cataclysm had shattered Beleriand. Waters rushed in where earth fell away. The shape of the world was changing now, as it had changed once before, and as it would change yet again.

Eönwë looked upon the devastation, weary to the depths of his soul. The part of him that thrilled to life in combat had been worn down to exhaustion. So many dead, so much lost. He had spared the sons of Fëanor, but they had still chosen to meet their doom.

He must not despair. It was the will of the Valar, and beyond them, the design of Ilúvatar. This was a moment of weakness. It would pass. He would be the captain of armies and herald of Manwë again. Only not right now. He wanted to be alone. The Eagles would find him soon enough, if no one else did.

Someone else came climbing up the pile of rubble that had been a fortress.

"Sauron," Eönwë said, without emotion. He did not know if he could feel anything about Sauron anymore at all.

Sauron was beautiful again, tall and fair and smiling. A guise, like all his glamour. Surely he did not go among the Orcs or command the Balrogs thus arrayed. Even in the days of old, when he worked the forges of Aulë, he had a severe demeanour. Only to Eönwë had he ever shown his warmth. He delighted in being a giver of gifts, devising many marvellous artefacts. He had beautiful hands, the hands of an artist and a craftsman. To what ends had he turned them? What horrors had he wrought, with his clever mind and deft hands, for Morgoth in the dungeons below Thangorodrim?

"I come unarmed," Sauron said, spreading those elegant hands wide, showing his empty palms. But his best weapon had never been the sword, nor anything one could see and parry.

"Why?" Eönwë said, as though there were any hope of truth falling from his tongue.

"Because I am here to surrender to you." Sauron walked forward, heedless of the folly of presenting a threat now.

Eönwë's sword lay close at hand, but he did not reach for it. Until this day, it had never tasted the blood of a fellow Maia. But today he had slain Balrogs. He had not come away unscathed. His skin still smarted from the lick of their fiery whips. But those wounds hurt less than memory. They had sung together once, in the time before time, in the void before the world was made. He did not recognise their faces now, but he had hoped to hear an echo of their voices. He still longed to hear a fragment of that first song, that astonishing symphony when anything seemed possible.

"Why?" Eönwë said again, as Sauron drew closer. So close they could touch, if he only reached out.

"Why?" Sauron echoed. "Because there is no other way. All my paths have led here."

"By your own choice. Through your own deeds. You turned traitor, and now you play at repentance?"

"Do you imagine Ilúvatar did not foresee this day? I know not what his great plan is, but he said it himself. All our designs are but part of his own design. Look about you! This too was his doing. We thought we were making our own destiny, but we are merely examples of his art. It all meant nothing. So I am here to meet judgment." He waited, a faint wistful smile on his face.

"If you seek your destruction at my hands, you seek in vain. I will not slay you. You are beyond my judgment. It is to the Valar that you must make answer."

"It is not them alone I have wronged. And it is not their forgiveness I seek." He stood watching Eönwë with that flawless mask, and Eönwë wondered what lay behind it, what corruption of the flesh, what stains of the spirit, marred his true visage. "Do you remember how it was? I have not forgotten."

"Nor have I," Eönwë said. They had been the best and brightest, comrades in arms, and more. Delighting in their discovery of each other.

"Then what can I do, to make amends? What will you accept from me?"

Eönwë could give him an ultimatum. Sauron might choose surrender and be banished to the void. Sauron might choose escape and be condemned as a fugitive. Either way, this was an ending. Everything changed. It was inevitable. He could not stop it, no matter what he wished, no matter how he yearned. Sometimes it was the last time, and you never knew until it was too late.

Eönwë took him by the shoulders. Sauron went still. Eönwë leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. Sauron opened his mouth in surprise, warm and soft. Until the hook of an unseen fang, that left a deep cut. Eönwë wiped at the blood on his jaw.

"I didn't know you were going to do that," Sauron said. His fingers went to his own lips. As though there was left an indelible impression there.

"Then you don't know me anymore."

"Why did you do it?"

_I should ask you that. Why did you leave? Why did you choose him? Why was I not good enough? I would have tried so hard for you. Instead of facing you across this broken battlefield._

Sauron studied his face for answers. Finding something of what he sought. He kissed Eönwë back, slow and tender. "I am surrendering myself to you." He smiled with that beautiful false mask.

But Eönwë pulled back. "I don't want an illusion. I want to see you as you are."

Sauron shook his head. "No. You don't."

"Then we're done here."

"Wait." Sauron stood there shimmering, and then the shimmer faded. Gone was his fair form. He bore spikes and fangs and horns, and he was pale from the pits of Angband. Scars scrolled across his skin, even across his hands, though that was little enough compared to what he had dealt out to others: death, wolves, vampires, worse. There was yellow in his eyes. They used to be the most beautiful clear amber. Now, like the eyes of a snake, they were jaundiced and slitted.

Sauron met his gaze, with shame and defiance and pride, oh, always pride. "Is this what you wanted to see?"

"Come here," Eönwë said. To kiss, to hold, to hope.

They made love on the battlefield, as though their passion could regenerate the earth, as though it could green the blasted hills, or restore the parched springs. Where they lay, flowers bloomed, whose petals were red as spilled blood, whose hearts were lit with tiny flames. _This is what we made._


End file.
